He Never Forgot

by P. D. Workman

  Rhys shrugged as well. He made the locking-lips gesture again, and Zachary reaffirmed his agreement.

  “I won’t bring it up. I won’t say anything.”

  Rhys nodded. He pushed Zachary’s phone back toward him, tapping the screen, even though it had turned off and the picture of Luke was no longer visible.

  “Luke is good. I talked to the woman who is helping him out today. Physically, he’s healed up. Barely any marks left from where he got cut, though he’ll have a scar from the bullet track,” Zachary traced the length of his jaw, following the path the bullet had taken. “Kenzie had been concerned about how bad his concussion was because he was out for so long, but mentally he seems to be fine. Some headaches and dizzy spells, but when you consider the drug withdrawal…” Zachary gave a shrug. “All of that is to be expected and more.”

  Rhys gave him a thumbs-up. Zachary nodded his agreement.

  “All good.”

  Rhys pointed at himself and then at his eyes. Could I see him?

  “I don’t know.” Zachary took a deep breath and let it out. “Let’s leave it for a while, anyway. I don’t want to distract him from his recovery. We really don’t know yet whether he’s going to be successful in staying away from drugs and the trafficking business. And I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

  Rhys’s frown became more pronounced, but he didn’t argue.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to derail him either. Let’s give him some time to figure out where he’s going… who he is. Remember, he hasn’t really had a chance to be his own person since he was twelve or thirteen. He has lots of ‘inner’ work to do.”

  Rhys nodded slowly, and Zachary thought he was a little more understanding this time.

  “I’m sorry for not understanding,” Zachary said, his face warming again. “You must have thought I was being pretty dense.”

  Rhys laughed and gave a little nod.

  Zachary laughed too, not having expected that answer. “Well, I’ll try to be a little more discerning in the future.”

  22

  Burton called as Zachary was leaving Rhys’s house. Zachary looked at the time on his phone and started the car. He answered it once it connected with the Bluetooth system.

  “Hello, Ben. How are you feeling?”

  Burton groaned, not even bothering to put on a front that overindulging never bothered him. “When can we meet? Have you got anything?”

  “I have some information for you. We’re not quite there yet, but I can tell you what I’ve got when we meet. When are you going to be in shape to get together?”

  “I’m going to head down to the bar now. I’ll be fine by the time you get here.”

  Zachary pictured Burton staggering down to the lounge still with bedhead and a rumpled shirt, determined to drink until he was no longer feeling any pain. “Well, hold off on getting drunk until after we meet. I want you to be coherent.”

  “When have I not been coherent?” Burton demanded. “I’ve been just fine. I haven’t caused you any trouble. I got us into the house, didn’t I? Didn’t just barge in there like a bull in a China shop and get us arrested.”

  “No. You did just fine. But I want you to be able to focus on what information I have.”

  “I will. Just get over here.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  Regardless of whether Burton slowed down or not, it wouldn’t take Zachary more than twenty minutes to get to the hotel; Burton couldn’t have too many drinks in that length of time. With his level of tolerance, he would have to drink longer than that to be feeling the effects.

  Zachary’s mental picture of Burton hadn’t been far off the mark. The bartender was already eyeing him, even though he’d only been there for a few minutes.

  “Let’s grab a booth,” Zachary suggested, steering Burton toward the one they had sat at previously. It felt like home—his own place in the lounge.

  Burton grabbed his glass and motioned to the bartender to bring him another at the table. They got settled in their usual seats. Zachary got out his notepad.

  “So, what do you know?” Burton demanded.

  “You’re sure you want me to go ahead? You’ve been back and forth on this. If you want to wait…”

  “I don’t want to wait. I’m here now. I want it now.”

  “Okay. First off, Allen is not your surname.”

  Burton blinked at him, eyes narrowing. “Then who is Allen?”

  “I’m thinking Allen is probably your middle name. Or maybe a double-barreled first name. Bobby Allen.”

  Burton shook his head. “No. What is my surname, then? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Weaver. Unless I miss my guess, you were born Robert Allen Weaver. Known as Bobby or Bobby Allen.”

  Burton continued to shake his head, not believing it.

  “There was no Allen family that lived in that home in the years that I checked,” Zachary explained. “If you were five when you were adopted, there is only a very narrow window for me to check for your family to be living in that house. If that was your house when you were four or five, then your family name is Weaver.”

  “Weaver,” Burton repeated. He frowned and had a drink, thinking about it.

  “Does that sound at all familiar to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You would have known your last name when you were five years old. Most five-year-olds have been taught their last name.”

  “No… I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before. What are… their other names?”

  “Elizabeth and Samuel.”

  “Elizabeth Weaver. Samuel Weaver.” Burton considered the names as he continued to drink. He was downing the drinks quickly. Like someone who had just run a marathon without any water. Desperate. Trying to drown the memories even as Zachary was trying to tell him the details.

  “Just think about them for a minute,” Zachary suggested. “Stop everything else, close your eyes, and just repeat the names to yourself. Elizabeth Weaver. Samuel Weaver. Maybe they had nicknames. Lizzie. Sam. Maybe your mother still went by her maiden name; the authorities weren’t very good at keeping track of that kind of thing back then. They just assumed that the wife would take the husband’s name.”

  Burton stared at Zachary, his eyes bloodshot and his expression stony. Eventually, he pushed his glass away an inch, placed his folded arms on the table, and closed his eyes. He swayed a little with them shut, the alcohol affecting him even though he insisted it didn’t.

  “Lizzie Weaver. Sam Weaver.”

  Burton sat there, eyes closed, thinking about it. He breathed in and out and Zachary waited for his response. Were those names buried in his memory somewhere? All kids heard their parents’ names from time to time. Even if he didn’t know their last names, he would still have heard his parents speak to each other, occasionally using each other’s names when they were calling across the house for help or reprimanding the other. Answering phones. Talking to salespeople at the door. Yes, I’m Mrs. Weaver. Answering census interviews.

  Burton opened his eyes. He looked at Zachary.

  “Who was Allen?”

  23

  Zachary let the words stand between them for what seemed like a long time. It couldn’t have been that long, because nothing happened in the silence. No conversations between other patrons, people coming and going, the bartender serving drinks. Zachary thought about Burton’s question.

  Who was Allen?

  Wasn’t Allen Burton’s middle name?

  What if it wasn’t? What if the two names were for two different boys? Two children. Daring each other to write their names on the wall behind the furnace. Making their mark on their territory, like lower-order animals.

  Two different colors of crayon. The names one below the other, not in a straight line. Were they the names of two separate people?

  “If Allen was not your second name, then you must have had a brother,” Zachary said. “Or else a friend you were allowed to have over who pl
ayed with you in the basement.”

  He couldn’t imagine any mother letting her child go over to the Weaver house to play in the dark, dank basement with a dirt floor. But she wouldn’t necessarily have known. If Allen never told her what went on over at the Weaver house, then how would she know?

  Burton gazed at Zachary. “A brother?” he repeated. “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Maybe he was just a friend, then. Did you have friends over?” He had been about to add ‘to play,’ but he was afraid of influencing Burton’s memories too much. Taking them out and molding them into something different before putting them back on the shelf. He didn’t want to be accused of planting false memories.

  “No,” Burton seemed sure of himself. As if it were a ridiculous question. Having friends over? Not something he ever would have considered. Or that would have been allowed.

  “If you didn’t have friends over…”

  “Then who is Allen?” Burton repeated.

  Unexpectedly, he slammed his open palm down on the table with a crack like a rifle. It shook Burton’s glass, the condiment bottles, and everything else on the table. People looked over at them to see what was going on, eyes wide.

  “Who is Allen?” Burton repeated in a loud, confrontational voice.

  Zachary made calming gestures with his hands. Downward, soothing motions that there was nothing to be concerned about or to start swearing about. “It’s okay. There’s no need to yell or get upset.”

  Burton smacked the tabletop again. Not as hard, but still distracting and frightening to the other customers. He would get them kicked out of the lounge. And they probably wouldn’t let him sit down at the bar again. He’d have to move to a new hotel.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Burton reasonably. “If you think I’m full of crap, just fire me. I don’t have to do anything else. You have some names you can look up, or you can do nothing with them. It’s totally up to you.”

  “I want to know who he is.” He didn’t yell this time, but kept it in an undertone.

  “Do you want me to find out if Allen Weaver was your brother? If he is still around?”

  Burton sat there, morose, thinking about it. Zachary could see the bartender watching them, making a decision as to whether to kick them out or not. If Burton could keep himself calm, he would probably be allowed to stay, but one more outburst and they would be pushing him out the door.

  “Allen Weaver.”

  “Yes. Does that sound familiar?” Zachary had a thought. “Maybe the social worker remembered the wrong name. Maybe she placed both of you, and she gave you the wrong name. Do you think your name is Allen Weaver?”

  “No.” Burton seemed sure of that. “No. I’m not Allen. But… where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I could look into it, if that’s what you would like.”

  Burton nodded slightly. Not a definite answer, but his brain telling his body what it was he wanted, nudging him along.

  “Okay. Let me look into it. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to find. If he was also adopted, he’ll have a different name now. It’s hard to track kids through adoption finalizations.”

  “I don’t have a brother,” Burton said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Maybe. We can look and find out. Or maybe you’ll remember who he was.”

  “No. Allen is…” Burton stalled. “I don’t know what I was going to say. Allen is…” He reached for the words. “Not there? Allen is not there?”

  Zachary listened, analyzing it. Had Burton remembered the phrase? Someone telling him that Allen was not there? Or was it just part of his drunken ramblings. He smelled strongly of drink. Possibly he still had alcohol from the night before in his system. And he’d had a jugful since waking up.

  “Allen is not there,” Zachary repeated, making it a statement rather than a question.

  Burton stared at him, his mouth tightening in anger. “Why did you say that?”

  “Allen is not there. Does that bother you? You don’t like me saying that?”

  “No. Don’t say that. You don’t know anything about it.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about Allen.”

  “But you can find out?”

  “I can try.”

  “There must be a birth certificate. You have the parents’ names, so can’t you look it up?”

  “If he was not adopted. If he was adopted, then all traces of the original name are wiped out and replaced with the new information.”

  Burton picked up his glass, but it was empty. He looked toward the bartender. The man shook his head. Burton was already being disruptive; the bartender wasn’t going to give him anything else.

  “There’s a minibar in the room,” Burton said. “Costs an arm and a leg, but at least I can keep drinking. Let’s go up.”

  “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

  Burton shook his head. “I’m just getting started.”

  While he stayed with Burton for a couple more hours, Zachary didn’t really get anything helpful out of him. Burton bounced from one topic to another, abandoning anything that got too intimate or led back to questions about his brother and what had happened to him.

  “There were two tricycles,” Burton told Zachary. “But there weren’t two boys. I would remember if there were two boys.”

  “Those tricycles wouldn’t have been yours. They were old, but thirty years old? I don’t think they’ve been sitting in the yard for that long. They belonged to other children, not to you.”

  “No. Not me.”

  “Do you remember playing outside? You remember catching bugs in the basement. You must have caught them outside too.”

  “No… don’t remember that. I just remember… I don’t remember, I have impressions… I recognize things. But I don’t remember.”

  “It’s okay not to remember things very well. It was a long time ago and it might have been traumatic for you. That makes it harder to remember things properly. Some things get pushed to the front and you keep remembering them over and over again. And other things… you want to remember, but can’t. They just never coalesced into a memory.”

  “I don’t have them,” Burton asserted.

  “That’s fine. That’s the way it is sometimes.”

  Burton downed another tiny bottle, setting the empty down beside him on the floor with the rest. “I want to know who Allen is.”

  24

  It might take a lot of alcohol to affect Burton, but he wasn’t immune to it. Zachary left him sprawled across the bed in his hotel room, snoring away, and hoped that he would be okay after sleeping it off.

  He headed for home. Or for Kenzie’s home, where she would be waiting for him. He hesitated when he looked at his phone, trying to decide whether to tell her he was on his way or just to show up. He settled for calling her on the Bluetooth once he was on his way.

  “Hi, Kenz. I’m on my way. Just running a little later than I expected to.”

  “Okay. Supper will hold for that long. Everything okay?”

  “Yes, just fine. Just getting my client settled for the night.”

  “Are you offering a tuck-in service now?”

  “You tuck your clients in, don’t you?”

  Kenzie laughed. “I suppose so. But I’m hoping your client hasn’t entered that stage of sleep yet.”

  “No.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  After hanging up, Zachary turned the radio on and let his mind wander while he listened to the music. He needed to let his brain just go for a while; he’d been concentrating too hard most of the day and it was exhausting.

  Sometimes, not thinking about a problem was the best way to come to a solution. Zachary would let his subconscious mind worry over whatever bits of his investigation it wanted to, and it tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Hopefully, the next day he would feel a better sense of direction as he tried to find out what had happened to the elusive Allen, if he was a second child. Zachary wasn’t convinced
that he was. The crayoned names had looked pretty similar; he hadn’t thought when he saw them that they were written by a different hand. Maybe all kids had similar handwriting at that age, or anyone writing with crayon on the wall would end up looking similar. He wasn’t a handwriting expert, though he’d studied the science a little in the course of his investigations.

  He had parked his car and was most of the way up the sidewalk to the house when he realized that his body had been operating on autopilot and he didn’t even remember most of the drive back. He paused at the door to try to rein in his brain again. He wanted to give Kenzie the attention she deserved, especially after his goof that morning forgetting that he was supposed to be making her breakfast.

  He took a couple of deep breaths, and went in.

  Kenzie was in the kitchen. At his arrival, she bent over to open the oven and pulled out a loaf of crusty garlic bread that set Zachary’s mouth watering. He didn’t care what else she had made to go with the bread. He just wanted the fragrant, yeasty bread on his plate.

  “That smells absolutely heavenly!” he told her.

  “Well, good thing you weren’t too long in getting here, or it would have been dry or burned.”

  “It smells just right.” He watched Kenzie carefully remove the foil and reveal the loaf, crust shiny with butter. She started to slice it, and each piece looked even and perfect.

  “Quit slobbering and set the table.”

  “Set the table,” Zachary repeated, and went to the cupboard. No way he was going to forget what he was supposed to be doing this time. He wouldn’t even forget the cutlery, which he frequently did. Kenzie always rolled her eyes over his doing jobs only halfway, such as setting plates on the table, but nothing else. Or maybe cups and cutlery and no plates. But she didn’t give up on getting him to do it properly and today he would get it right. He muttered to himself as he got out everything that needed to go on the table. He might sound crazy talking to himself, but it helped him to get all of the steps done if he could hear his own voice instead of trying to keep it straight in his head.